


Surface

by TheStrange_One



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Black Panther (2018), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arachnophobia, Hunting, Multi-Species, Peter grew up isolated, Some familiar characters are dragons or unicorns, There be dragons, There be unicorns, Torture, Wade Wilson does not hear boxes, because I said so, coming war, dragon-human hybrids, eating hunted meat, spider-human hybrids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-20 07:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: Peter Parker--a Spiderling halfbreed raised by the greatest sage and healer known to the kingdom in the middle of nowhere.Wade Wilson--a soldier tortured for "treason" and cursed to never die.Arthuria--kingdom ruled by T'Challa The Wise.Morgania--kingdom ruled by Shiklah the cruel.The problem when you want to conquer another country is that you have no idea which one will win, or what mistakes will come back to haunt you later.





	1. Peter

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm not actively working this one (I've got another two I'm working on right now), but I tried to have it ready in time for the Spideypool Big Bang deadline--and failed. I just thought I'd go ahead and post the first chapter and see what the reactions are for it.

Peter swung to another tree and silently landed on the branch. Sure, he _could_ have waited back at the village for the unicorn knights like the others were—but then he’d have to listen to the other villagers talk about how _useless _he was. He scowled at nothing as he perched on the branch, automatically listening for prey.

They said he was a needy little orphan. Which—while harsh was technically true. He _was_ an orphan. He _did_ need things; usually more along the lines of _sympathy_ and _empathy_ rather than _clothes_ and _food_. He had his own shelter, that his family had left him. He was the best hunter in the village. He was so good, in fact, that his prey usually fed a good third of them. And he could process his food and make his own clothes! Which, he needed to do since none of them would help him. He didn’t understand why they hated him so much.

_They know you’re different._

He was. He knew he was. When he’d been a child, when it had first started to—well, _show_, Uncle Ben had taken him aside and explained, as kindly and as bluntly as he could, why Peter was different from the others. Why he had to hide it. Who his parents had been.

He rubbed his face wearily as he listened to the sounds of the forest. He didn’t know whether to be happy he looked so much like a human his parents had dumped him off with his aunt and uncle, or to wish that he’d looked more like his father’s side of the family and stayed with his parents.

“Peter!”

He looked down to see Uncle Ben, great sorcerer of the village, staring up at the tree, hands on his hips. There was no way for the old man to see him there, in the foliage of the tree, but he knew where Peter was. He always knew; Peter sometimes wondered if the man had placed a tracking spell on him.

“Peter! I need to talk to you!” Peter sighed. There was no arguing with that tone of voice. He quickly climbed down the tree and dropped to the ground next to his uncle. The old man pierced him with a stern look from under the huge brim of his hat. “Peter,” he said warningly.

Peter flung his arms out in defense. “I _am_ careful!” he protested. “Everyone else is at the village, waiting for the knights!”

Uncle Ben sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Peter,” he said slowly. “_Everyone else_ is there.” He waited and sighed when Peter just stared at him. “Come on,” he said gently as he put an arm on his nephew’s shoulder, “we need to talk.”

Peter stopped when he uncle led him to the Grove. Even Peter, unable to use magic as he was, could feel the power in the Grove, and he turned an accusing stare at his uncle, who sighed. “I know,” Uncle Ben said, “but I want to make absolutely certain we won’t be overheard.

Peter grimaced. Uncle Ben—had a point. The power of the Grove was so strong that it could distort sound coming from inside of it to make a small rabbit looking for food sound like a huge bear or vice versa. Hunters, himself included, gave the Grove as wide a berth as possible. It was impossible to tell what was inside and besides, nothing could die as long as it was in the Grove.

The Grove itself was a small circle of trees around a pond, their branches intertwining to create a roof-like structure above and walls around it. They were like no other trees in the forest with overlapping hand shaped leaves that never turned, never fell. The pond, no matter the time of day, was a deep, vibrant blue that almost glowed. The pond seemed to be devoid of life—but the life in the Grove seemed to flourish. Around the pond were large, clear rocks, big enough for people to sit on. Uncle Ben had no hesitation about claiming one of those rocks as his own and gesturing Peter towards another.

The power of the magic residing within the space danced along Peter’s skin, making him itch uncontrollably. He didn’t bother scratching; he knew it wouldn't help. The itching wouldn't stop until he left the Grove and besides, if he scratched his arms to ribbons _in_ the Grove he was almost certain to get an infection when he _left_ the Grove.

“All right,” Uncle Ben said when he knew Peter was as settled as he could be. “I happen to know the captain of this squadron of Unicorn Knights, and I asked him for a favor.”

Peter frowned. His uncle was always preaching self-reliability, when possible. “What kind of favor?” he asked with curiosity.

“I want you go to back with them to the Capital.”

Peter stared at his uncle dumbfounded. Was he—was he being thrown away? Again? “Why?” he whispered. A knot formed in his throat and he swallowed it down. “I’m a good hunter,” he added quickly.

Uncle Ben sighed. “Peter, can you look me in the eyes and tell me that you’re happy?”

Peter met his uncle’s brown eyes—the same color as his own—and tried to speak but memories boiled to the surface of his mind, of his brain. Memories of being mocked, derided. Scolded for things he couldn't control; for things that weren’t his fault. His gaze was drawn to the lush green grass by the pond.

“And that’s why. Peter, you are not happy here. As long as you stay here you won’t _be_ happy.” Uncle Ben reached out and gently clenched Peter’s shoulder. “You deserve better than that. There’s a whole world out there beyond the idiocy of bigoted people who are only still alive because His Majesty said he can’t afford to lose the taxes they represent.” Peter huffed a quiet laugh.

“What if,” Peter asked, “I can’t?” He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap as he remembered taunts, jeers, and insults. Why would the people outside of the village be any different?

Uncle Ben heaved another sigh. “And that,” he said bitterly, “is another reason why you should. These idiots have done nothing but chip away at your self-esteem since they met you. And you’re strong Peter.”

“Not really,” Peter protested.

“You once stopped a century-old tree from falling on the house and then tossed it aside—_in_ a lightning storm,” Uncle Ben said flatly.

Peter flushed. He’d always known that he was stronger than the others his age. His first lessons had been in _controlling_ his strength, not _building_ it. “That’s not what I meant,” he mumbled.

“I know.” He looked up into his uncle’s kind eyes. “You’re a wonderful person Peter. You need to go out into the world and meet people who will appreciate it instead of criticizing you for something you couldn’t possibly have done while feasting on food _you_ caught and _you_ prepared.” Peter winced. “No, it is _not_ your fault,” Uncle Ben said firmly, anger vibrating through his voice. “_You_ have done nothing wrong!”

“But—” protested Peter.

Uncle Ben pinned him with a look and he squirmed under more than the itching of the inherent power around them. “Peter, I know what happened with the bear.”

Peter winced. He remembered the bear far too well; he had encountered it out hunting. It had the foaming disease, and he’d had to put it down. Then he’d gone to ask his uncle if the corpse was safe enough to touch or if he needed to burn it where it was only for Flash to pick the thing up and take it to the village claiming _he’d_ killed it. Peter had had nightmares for weeks about Flash suddenly developing the disease.

Uncle Ben sighed. “Your urge to protect the people around you is a good thing. A great thing, no matter what these small-minded morons think. But it’s become your _only_ thing. You need to grow Peter. Meet new people, fall in love, watch a sunset together. I met May on a journey.” The old man chuckled. “I had gotten injured in a battle and listened as she both cared for the injured and yelled at them for being stupid.”

Despite his discomfort, Peter smiled too. He’d seen Aunt May do the same with the villagers when they got injured. She treated the injuries, oh yes, but she also let the injured know how stupid they’d been to get the injury—if they’d been doing something stupid.

Uncle Ben kindly put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It’s time boy,” he said, “for you to go on your own journey, to find your own love.” He gently ruffled Peter’s hair making the young man duck and grin, like he had back when he’d been a child.

Peter chuckled softly, nervously. He’d never been farther from home than the spider encampment before. “If—if you say so, Uncle Ben,” he said.

“Yeah, you might want to watch that attitude with Tony,” Uncle Ben said firmly as they got up and walked out of the grove. “He’ll take advantage of it.”


	2. Wade

The clawed fist dug into Wade’s stomach and he groaned, blond hair falling over his face as the chains holding him up rattled. How? How had this happened? Just what had he done that was so _wrong_?

He could hear the throaty chuckle of Shiklah. “Poor dear,” she crooned in that voice he used to love, adore, and worship. “He seems so confused.”

Fire raced along the edge of the claws, cauterizing the wounds even as the hand opened and traveled upwards, burning a path towards his scalp. Burning fingers clawed the back of his head as he was forced to look into the pale face of his tormentor. “Should we enlighten him?” Dracula asked his wife.

Shiklah lounged on the throne of bones behind her. Bones that Wade, himself, had had a hand in gathering and crafting as she smirked at the scene. “No,” she said coldly a tiny smile dancing around her lips. “I don’t think we should.” She stood up, huge ribbed wings following her like a cape as she took careful steps to prevent the talons on her feet from marking up the floor. Wade knew every blood red tile as well as he knew his own skin. His own wings.

The wings they’d cut from him before stringing him up in the throne room.

A single claw worked its way under Wade’s chin. “Ignorance is so—painful,” Shiklah purred as she forced his head up and back to a painful amount, blood dripping around the claw. Her tongue reached out and licked the trail of blood to his throat. “Delicious,” she said.

Wade whimpered and tried, vainly, to struggle away from them. His back throbbed and burned along with the burns on his stomach, side, and the side of his head. He tried to push himself up and away from them—but they’d done something to his feet. He didn’t have the height he should.

“Sh,” soothed Shiklah as she released his chin to gently cup the side of his face with her cool hand. “Tell me, Baby,” she ordered gently, “what do you want?”

He couldn't deny that voice and whimpered with the effort of holding back. He knew they’d find a way to use it against him—but he couldn't stop himself. Tears coursed down his cheeks. “I want—to live,” he gasped out.

Shiklah laughed in delight as the hand gently cupping his face began to freeze, destroying the tissue under it. “Don’t worry Wade,” she said over the sound of his screams. Her hand moved to roam, her other hand reaching down. “You won’t die,” she purred.

He didn’t. He screamed until he was hoarse, until his voice was a ragged shard of its former self—but he didn’t die. He didn’t die while they were playing with him. He didn’t die when the cut him down to fall, helplessly, to the floor. He didn’t die when they threw him into the desert with no shelter, clothes, food, or water.

He struggled to his feet and toppled over before looking at them. He’d known they’d done something to them, of course. Not once during everything had he been able to see what they’d done.

Draglings, like himself, didn’t have a lot of feeling in their lower legs and feet. It was understandable, given that the lower legs were scaled thickly to protect from the myriad of sharp and painful things that Draglings liked to perch on; everything from thorny branches in the desert to rocks near the lava pool.

He no longer had the scaled talons of a Dragling. He—legs. They were dark, and almost mottled like his scales—but they weren’t. Wade hesitantly ran a hand over his leg and jerked it back. He could _feel_ the skin of his legs, through the legs! How? Why? Just—just what was _done_ to him? And the feet! The feet weren’t the slender curves of Dragling feet; just—flat. Meant for walking.

He had to walk. He had places to go. Okay, no he didn’t. But there was nothing for him _here_, might as well walk somewhere else.

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking on the hard, barren earth when he realized that his feet (legs too, but mainly feet) were in _pain_. Insane amounts of pain. Pain that radiated upwards viciously, unrelenting.

Not once, during anything the royal Draglings had done, had they touched his legs or feet. They probably, since they were Draglings themselves, didn’t realize how soft, tender, and _excruciating_ the new limbs were. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or rage at the thought.

Eventually he just sobbed as he walked. Eventually he lost the ability to do even that. But. He. Still. Didn’t. Die.

A large taloned foot, easily as large as Wade himself, plopped down to the ground in front of him causing the broken Dragling to look up. The jaws of the dragon in front of him opened and he saw the spark of light at the back of the throat that meant he was about to be engulfed in fire. He didn’t care. He didn’t move. If anything, he welcomed it, desperately wanting to die.

It didn’t kill him. He could feel it burning the flesh off his bones, burning the bones themselves—but he didn’t die. He stared at his bleeding, broken body for a moment, desperation rising in his throat. He wanted to kill something! He wanted to hurt something!

And there was a dragon right in front of him. Most of the scales were impervious to damage—but that was the key. _Most_ of them. He didn’t have his claws anymore, but he still had his teeth. Even if they did seem ridiculously blunt. He viciously scratched, bit, and clawed at the dragon, hitting the soft spots. The spots where the scales were smaller, thinner, to allow the beast to move. He was well familiar with those.

He failed. He didn’t even make a dent when the dragon gripped him in a claw, fixed him with the stare from one baleful, yellow eye, and said, [Well met, young Dragling. I believe I shall enjoy being your Bond.]

Bond? Wade stopped struggling and blinked up at the huge dragon seeing nothing more than a giant white blob. What did it mean, a Bond? He felt an odd sensation, like someone was going through his mind.

[I feel that you need Healing, my Bonded,] the dragon said. [I do not want you to die.]

Wade gave a low, broken laugh, ignoring the bloody spittle that clung to his swollen lips. “Can’t,” he wheezed.

[Good.]


	3. Peter

Uncle Ben walked with Peter towards the unicorn knights in the center of the village. The elderly man probably assumed (correctly) that Peter wouldn't have made the trek on his own. He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to leave. He’d miss Aunt May and Uncle Ben. He’d miss—literally  _no one_ else. Maybe Uncle Ben was right about it being time for Peter to leave.

The knights were in the center of the village, tending the unicorns. Unicorns were only half the size of horses, more about the size of a donkey, but there the comparisons ended. Their bodies shone with an inherent light no matter what their color was. Their legs were delicate and dainty compared to horses and donkeys as well, and almost looked like they’d shatter at the first sign of an exhaled breath.  Their tails were slender and long with a single tuft of fur at the end that matched their flowing manes.

The colors! He was seeing colors he almost never saw, outside of the first few weeks of spring. One of the unicorns was light orange with a dark red mane, another  _looked_ to be black until the sunlight hit and showed it was just a deep, dark blue. One was yellow with a red mane and tail, another in different shades of green. And they all looked so amazingly vibrant.

{I like this child already.} The yellow one with a red mane tossed its head and winked a white eye—the whites extending to the black pupil in the center—at Peter. He looked around, but it didn’t seem as though anyone else had heard the voice.

“Tony!” Uncle Ben called out.

The tall man next to the orange unicorn turned. His bearded face broke into a smile and he loped over. “Benjamin!” he called back. The two exchanged a hug. “What are  _you_ doing in the ass-end of nowhere?”

Peter bit back a smile as several of the watching villagers stared at the new man.  Tact was clearly not his strong suit, but he was right—it  _was_ the ass-end of nowhere. The nearest village was easily two days away, and much larger.

Uncle Ben laughed and reached up to tousle Peter’s hair. “Raising my nephew,” he said fondly. “Peter, this is Tony Stark.”

Peter, recognizing his social cue, stuck out a hand to the knight. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stark,” he said earnestly.

Tony eyed the hand with misgiving and Peter awkwardly tucked it behind him. “God kid,” he complained. “You make me feel old.”

Uncle Ben laughed and clasped his shoulder. “You should have tried chasing his two year-old behind through the forest.”

Peter squirmed uncomfortably. “I wasn’t  _that_ bad,” he muttered. His uncle turned to him with a sardonic look and he ducked his head. He had to admit that yes, with his abilities, he would have been that bad.

Tony snorted. “Kid,” he said looking at Peter, “all kids are little nightmare disasters. Surviving the shit you put yourself and your parents through is how you grow up and learn.” He gently thumped Peter’s shoulder before turning back to Uncle Ben. “So, how’s May?”

Uncle Ben grinned. “The same spitfire healer I married.”

Tony snorted again and his unicorn let out a sound suspiciously like a snicker. “I bet,” he said vaguely.

Before anything else could happen a pair hands shoved Peter forwards. He stumbled, but didn’t fall or run into Tony. “What do you think you’re doing?” demanded the harsh voice behind him.

Uncle Ben glared at the interloper. “He,” the old man said in a brittle voice, “is spending time with his uncle and his uncle’s friend.”

The young man sneered at them. “And just what did he do,” the young man demanded with his own glare at Peter, “to deserve such great company?”

Suddenly the yellow unicorn interposed itself between Peter and the young man. {Perhaps,} the unicorn said darkly, { _he_ was being polite.}

No one had ever said that Peter’s little village was filled with smart people. The young man glared right back at the unicorn and pointed at Peter. “He’s nothing!” the young man shouted.

The unicorn lowered its head and its horn, the same color as the majority of its body, began to glow brighter. The sickly yellow light conjured images in Peter’s head of things rotting. {You,} the unicorn said coldly, {will go away now. I do  _not_ have the patience to deal with you.}

The young man was a lot of things—but suicidal wasn’t one of them.  He paled and scurried away, sending glares at Peter as he did. Peter winced. His relationship with that one was just about to get even worse than it already was.

“I see you haven’t lost your talent for understatement,” drawled Tony.

“May says I’ve gotten better,” Uncle Ben defends himself.

T ony snorted with derision once again as his unicorn snickered and the yellow unicorn, horn no longer blazing, carefully inspected Peter. “May,” Tony said and Peter’s ears perked up, “one smacked a man who’d lost his arm upside the head and told him that he was perfectly capable of walking off the battlefield on his own two feet, since both of  _them_ were still there. Forgive me if I don’t take her words at face value.”

That was a story that Peter had never heard before—but he could easily believe it from his no-nonsense aunt.  She had probably already been scanning the field for bodies that were going to die unless they got immediate attention. But what had Uncle Ben been doing at the time?

Uncle Ben merely chuckled. “Thanks for this, Tony. Come on Peter,” Uncle Ben added as he reached out and grabbed Peter’s arm. “Time to go pack your things.”

{You’re coming with us? Wonderful!} The yellow unicorn danced away, mischief in its eyes. Now, as the unicorn was moving, Peter noticed that it had golden cloven hooves.  The orange unicorn gently nudged it before nodding at Peter, who suddenly noticed that, unlike horses, unicorns had eyes in the front of their heads, like predators did. {We  _are_ predators, thank you very much,} the yellow unicorn said with a snicker. {You’ll see.}

Aunt May was less than pleased. “You’re doing what?” she demanded darkly as Peter shoved his items into his uncle’s old (and perfectly preserved) traveling bag.

Peter paused in his work and turned. “I thought you knew,” he said confused. “About—about me leaving.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Aunt May blithely reassured him before rounding on his uncle again. “Why is that boy not in here looking for treatment for a broken arm?”

“You wouldn't treat it!”

“Damn right!” snarled Aunt May.

“And _that’s_ why his arm isn’t broken!” yelled Uncle Ben.

Peter hummed nervously to himself. He knew what usually happened after the two of them yelled at each other and he wanted to be far away before it started. Not that he didn’t think the two of them should be physically intimate—it was just uncomfortable and the cottage only had one room.

He swung the bag over his shoulder and hopped down to the floor (ignoring, once again, the ladder to the upper part of the cottage). “I’m sorry,” he said contritely as they both turned to look at him.

Aunt May sighed. “Don’t be,” she said wearily. “Come along Peter; I have a few choice words for Tony before you go.”

Peter winced. The last time she said those words in that tone of voice she’d lectured the butcher until he broke down sobbing and begging for forgiveness—and the man had blamed Peter for the whole thing and Peter didn’t even know what she’d lectured him _about_. “I can go myself?” he asked hesitantly.

She merely snorted and grabbed her shawl. “Come along,” she ordered.

Peter shivered at the tone of his voice and Uncle Ben clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. “Good luck,” he said mildly. Peter shot him a nervous glare before meekly following his Aunt May.

She was every bit the prim and proper lady as she walked. Hands folded neatly in the loose skirts she wore, every hair in place, perfect posture, graceful steps. Peter knew his aunt well enough to know when she was on the warpath.

What had Tony done? Was he the reason that his aunt was acting this way? Or was it something else? He didn’t know.

“Anthony Stark,” greeted Aunt May in a clipped, polite voice that made Peter wince. Tony too, from what Peter could see.

Peter watched as Tony visibly collected himself before walking over, his unicorn trailing and looking much too amused. “May,” he said warily as he looked at the woman and attempted to smile. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Aunt May frowned. “I hope,” she said coldly, “that you have gotten much better at fighting. I won’t be with your group to patch all of you up and, I swear, if you let anything happen to my boy I will hunt you _all_ down.” Her glare traveled impartially around the group. The men looked nervous and wary, the unicorns interested.

“And now I remember why,” muttered Tony. His expression didn’t change and Peter was sure that the only reason _he_ heard the older man was because his hearing was—exceptional. Tony simply turned to Peter. “Now, our dear Yellow—don’t laugh, that’s really her name—is currently without a rider.”

The yellow unicorn trotted over and snickered. {I dumped the last moron off the side of a cliff. He tried to knee me in the side.}

Peter looked again and saw that the unicorn’s stomach was drooping quite a bit more than that of the other unicorns. “How far along are you?” he asked curiously.

She nickered at him. {Far enough that he should have known better.} The orange unicorn nudged the yellow one before turning back to Aunt May.

“Pepper says that Yellow isn’t going to dump Peter off the edge of a cliff.”

Aunt May merely snorted, as though she was used to hearing unicorns talk about how they weren’t going to kill someone. Maybe she was. Peter was just realizing how much he didn’t know about his aunt.

“You had better not,” Aunt May said firmly as she glared at the yellow unicorn. “Or I will hunt you down, and I _know_ how to kill unicorns.” The elderly woman paused for a moment. “Dragons too, for that matter.”

“And Fury will never be the same,” Tony said firmly.

She snorted. “Of course not. And he should have known better,” she added firmly.

Tony, to Peter’s surprise, laughed before turning back to Peter. “All right,” he said gently, “put your bag in the wagon with the rest of our supplies,” he told the boy.

“Just one moment!” demanded a woman as she pushed forwards. Peter winced as he recognized the mayor’s wife as she glared at Peter before turning her rage towards Tony. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” the woman demanded hotly.

Tony looked at the woman the same way that Peter looked at particularly interesting webs he saw in the forest; a little bit of caution, a lot of awe, and a huge hope that the maker isn’t going to attack because there might not be enough time to escape. “Who are you?” he asked.

The woman gasps that this strange man (that she’d probably never seen before) didn’t know who she was and drew herself up, eyes flashing. Peter shrunk back in on himself. He knew what that meant. “I,” she said haughtily, “am the mayor’s wife!”

“And I am the squad leader of this group of unicorn knights,” Tony said calmly. Too calmly. Peter was already starting to shake at the thought of the encounter that was about to happen.

“Why,” she demanded swinging a finger to point at Peter, “are you taking _him_? If you’re going to take anyone, you should be taking my son.”

Tony’s stare turned puzzled. “Benjamin,” he said slowly, “is a good friend of mine. He asked if I’d mind taking Peter to the capital and looking after him there as he sets up a new life.” Tony looked up at Peter. “Not as a unicorn knight, I’m afraid,” he said with genuine regret, “unless you bond with one.” Pepper, his unicorn, snickered, echoed by Yellow.

The woman sneered. “Peter is a failure,” she hissed.

Aunt May stepped forwards. Tony, Pepper, and Yellow took identical steps back, both unicorns watching eagerly. “Are you saying that because you believe it?” Aunt May asked mildly as she stared coldly at the woman. They’d bumped heads in the past. “Or, are you saying it because you’re afraid your family will starve if Peter isn’t here for your son to claim the kills of.”

Silence in the village center. Tony looked at the woman with interest as several of the villagers shifted nervously. Peter stared at his feet. If the woman had anything to say about it, he was going to be stuck in the village forever, and suddenly he wanted to leave—even if it meant leaving his aunt and uncle behind.

“If you’re that worried about starving,” Aunt May continued, “perhaps you should teach your own son how to hunt.”

“Like you taught that little halfling?” swore the woman rounding on Aunt May with a glare and grimace.

Aunt May simply smiled. “Exactly,” she said with satisfaction.

Tony’s gaze darted between the two women for a moment before he clapped his hands. “All right. Peter, load your stuff. Yellow, get him on his back and make sure he knows what _not_ to do so we don’t have a repeat of your last rider.” Yellow snickered again and then weaved between the two women to duck and get herself under Peter, lifting him off the ground. “Now, let’s get to Staff Sargent Rhodey!” he ordered. He nodded dismissal to both women. The mayor’s wife fumed as Aunt May blessed them with a tiny smile before the unicorns, in a movement that looked choreographed, marched out with the wagon trailing behind them.


	4. Wade

Wade wasn’t surprised to wake up. He’d already learned the beauty of death was beyond him, after whatever the royal Draglings had done to him. He _was_ surprised to feel—comfortable? He wasn’t burning, aching, or even dehydrated. Had he managed to die?

“Ah, I see you’re awake.” Wade forced his eyes open to look at the person speaking to him. The person next to him had pale skin, dark and curly hair with silver shot through it, and was making notes on a scroll. He had no scales, slime, or sparks.

Wade wasn’t an expert in the Western Lands, but he was relatively sure he was looking at a human. “What?” he croaked. He stopped in puzzlement. His throat didn’t _feel_ dry, but his voice rasped like it was.

“Try not to talk,” scolded the human gently, softly as he kept his voice down. “You were in bad shape and my spell—my spell did not react well with the spell you were already under. I’m not certain why.”

There was a rustling noise, a brief moment of blinding light, and then someone came in. “All right,” said the new person. The new one looked similar to the one treating Wade. “I got Cap to cool the water.”

The human looking after Wade hummed. “And, of course, it took you over half a mark to get the cooled water here, in the hot sun.”

The other human flushed a painful looking red. “All right,” the other human admitted. “Cap misjudged the force and froze the water too quickly, breaking the bowl, so we then had to make sure there was no sand or glass in the ice before letting it melt enough to drink. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” the first human said with no emotional inflection in its voice. “I need you to remember that a detailed report can be the difference between life and death.”

The eyes of the new human made an odd, circular motion in their sockets. “It’s just _water_, Bruce,” the human said.

“It is water,” the first human said with every word chipped out of the air, “in the desert. Water that, may I remind you, we have very little ways of replacing. You will treat that water with the respect it deserves.”

“Yes, Bruce,” said the second human. It looked at Wade and gave a wink before handing him a bowl. “No glass or sand in it,” he assured the Dragling.

“Thanks,” rasped Wade as he took a sip. The first sip cut like a cold knife down his throat—painful, but good at the same time. The second sip was much easier. He took a gulp.

“Drink slowly,” ordered Bruce calmly as he dipped his brush into a ink pot before writing some more. “Do not undo all of my hard work.”

Wade tried to obey—but the water felt _so good_. He didn’t even know how long it had been since he’d _had_ water—certainly before the torture had begun.

“What about food?” the new human asked.

Bruce frowned, the only change in expression. “That is a good question,” Bruce admitted. “What tribe are you from?” the human asked Wade.

Tribe? What was the human talking about? Draglings lived in a kingdom, much as he’d heard that humans did.

Seeing his confusion the human asked, “What do you eat? What do you consider food?”

About to answer—Wade stopped. What _did_ he consider food? He wanted to say “anything that doesn’t run away,” but stones didn’t run away, and he didn’t consider _them_ food.

[Tell him you eat meat, fruit, and grain.]

Stunned, Wade spoke. “The voice in my head says meat, fruit, and grain?”

Bruce nodded. “That voice is your dragon,” he said.

“And what a dragon! _No one_ has ever bonded with that one before!”

Wade heard an odd creaking and a snort that blew dust into the space. [Of course. I will not bond to a _weakling_.]

Wade was feeling very weak at the moment.

[To be expected. After all, you _did_ fight _me_.] Wade recognized the smugness in the dragon’s tone. It was similar to what Wade had used—Before.

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “You _are_ one of the most powerful dragons of our time,” the human calmly commented.

“How did you—” began to second human.

The first cut the human off. “Go and find some fruit for our new recruit,” he ordered. “He needs sustenance.” The second human put a flat hand to its forehead, like it was smacking itself, and cheerfully barked an assent before leaving, allowing another brief, blinding flash of light. Bruce rubbed his eyes before looking at Wade. “I need to know, so that I don’t accidentally mistreat you. Where did you come from before you arrived here?”

Wade told him about the castle. About the torture. About being left in the desert like a piece of trash.

The human frowned while looking over at Wade. “What are you?”

“Dragling.”

“Ah.” The frown cleared and the human began writing on the scroll again. “That explains much.”

It did? Wade was still confused. He looked at the human.

There was an odd jingling noise. [Doctor, the Captain requests entry.]

“Come in, Captain,” the human called. There was another brief flash of light and a tall human with light sand-colored hair walked in. “Bruce,” the human said amiably before turning to Wade. “And how are you?” The question was kind, soothing. Wade wasn’t certain why.

“Still malnourished and dehydrated,” commented Bruce. “But will be ready to travel by morning. Any luck finding our missing soldier?”

“It would seem the dragon he attempted to subdue ate him,” the new human stated calmly.

Bruce gave a thoughtful hum. “Such is the way of things.”

Captain, the new human, winced. “I did pass along your thoughts he wasn’t ready.” The voice sounded—apologetic?

“And what did our esteemed ruler have to say about it?”

“That he was a warrior who deserved to either succeed and bask in glory or fail and die in dishonor,” said the Captain.

Bruce hummed again. “Very well,” the human said calmly. “I understand.”

“I don’t,” grumbled the Captain.

Bruce stopped writing, capped the ink, and carefully rubbed a little bit of sand over the scroll. “Erik was the next in line for the throne,” Bruce said.

“Yes,” agreed Captain nervously.

Wade held his breath. He wondered if they’d forgotten he was there. No Dragling would _ever_ allow someone, recovering or not, to hear about palace intrigues.

“However, Erik was also brash, ruthless, and cold even when what was needed was calm, empathy, or mercy,” Bruce said. “Bonding to a dragon is a life changing experience. You are bound, for the rest of your life, to a creature that is larger, stronger, and usually smarter than you.”

[Bruce knows dragons well.]

“Thank you. I also know,” Bruce said as he shook the sand off the scroll before rolling it up, “that before we left Erik announced that he was going to be a unicorn knight and our only pregnant unicorn at the moment calmly informed the world around her that if that man came close to her she was going to stab him in the heart.” Bruce turned to look at both Captain and Wade. “I suspect that was part of the reason we were rushed out with—less than adequately trained troops.”

Captain sighed before turning to Wade. “You,” he said, “must be very confused at this point.”

“Oh, no,” Wade assured the human. “After all, I get dragged around by dragons and wake up with strange humans talking over me about people I’ve never heard of every day.”

Captain grinned. “You’re going to get along well,” the human observed before leaving with another blinding flash of light.

When Wade’s vision went back to normal, he saw that Bruce was smiling as well. “You’ll fit right in with the rest of us,” Bruce said mildly.


	5. Peter

{So, on a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you?}

Peter looked at the yellow unicorn that had decided to follow him as he hunted some game for the midday meal. He was amazed at her ability to walk silently through the crunchy forest loam, but he gave her thought some consideration. “About a seven,” he said finally. “Why?”

The unicorn snickered. {Because the hungrier you are, the easier it is to eat.}

Peter didn’t quite know what to make of that, but continued until he thought he had a big enough catch to help with the midday meal. He took the prey to the rough campsite—and stared at the pot hanging over the fire in horror. That couldn't—it wasn’t—

The stuff inside the pot was mostly black and had an odd, greenish sheen over the surface. It appeared to be the consistency of swamp muck. As Peter watched Tony went over and stirred gently, releasing a foul odor—somewhere between burned and decayed—into the air.

Tony looked up and smiled. “Ah!” he said happily. “Meat! Just what the stew needs!”

Peter stared at the pot in horror. “I think I’ll cook the meat,” he told the man.

Tony frowned. “Peter, you don’t have to do that,” he said calmly.

A single bubble formed at the top of the concoction in the pot and slowly popped leaving, for just a moment, tiny little spikes in the air as the liquid was reabsorbed into the rest of the stuff. “I insist,” Peter said firmly before skinning, carving, and staking the beasts over a fire.

“I can help with that,” Tony offered.

{Don’t let him. He might somehow magically convert them to the mess that is the “stew.”}

“I got it,” Peter assured him. “I’m used to making midday meals in the forest, and these,” he added as he pulled one of the meat sticks out of the fire and rubbed some herbs he’d collected while hunting (automatic; he usually gathered for his aunt while he was out), “are what I usually have.” He looked up at Tony and quickly added, “You don’t have to eat them. If you want one for the stew, that’s fine.”

“Well—” Tony was interrupted when one of the other men wrapped an arm around his mouth and yanked him back.

“Boy just left home,” another man grunted, eyes on the sticks of meat roasting as Peter seasoned another one. “He should get to have the taste of home as long as possible,” the man added wiping away what suspiciously appeared to be drool.

“I agree,” the fourth man echoed firmly as they watched the meat. “In fact,” the man added, “I think, to help Peter adjust to his new life, he should be in charge of cooking from now on.” A chorus of cheers greeted this pronouncement as several of the unicorns snorted and pawed the ground.

Tony wrested the arm away, his face flushed. “Now look,” he said as he glared around at his men. “Peter is the son of a good friend of mine, and we’re not using him—”

Peter glanced over at the other fire just in time to see another, larger bubble form and pop, sending dribbles of the liquid over the rim and into the fire—which flashed green. “I don’t mind,” he said hurriedly. “Honest.” He scrambled to think of an excuse, _any _excuse he could come up with.

{Treat him as an apprentice.} Tony stopped and turned to stare at Yellow who calmly tossed her mane and flipped her tail at him. {If you had an apprentice with you on this trip, _he_ would be in charge of all the cooking, and in the meantime he would be learning all there is to know about being a unicorn knight. Treat Peter like you would an apprentice.}

Tony blinked. The men and unicorns held their breath as they watched their fearless leader. “Well,” said Tony thoughtfully, “I guess that _does_ make sense.”

The force of so many people sighing in relief almost rustled the trees around them as Tony went back to the pot.

Peter looked up as one of the men clapped him on the shoulder. “Good job, kid,” the man said gruffly.

Another one gave a low snort and said, too quietly for anyone other than Peter to hear him, “Thank Goddess. Just one more meal with that.”

Yellow hooked her snout over Peter’s shoulder. {That meat smells really good. Give me a bite.}

“It’s not quite cooked yet,” Peter warned. She snorted, so he carved her a strip and she daintily nibbled on it revealing a pair of canine-like incisors in her mouth.

{Good,} Yellow said firmly. {This is really good. Thank you, Peter.}

Peter flushed as he served the others and they also praised him. He wasn’t used to hearing praise from anyone other than his aunt and uncle. It was nice, but he wasn’t entirely certain how to handle it. Did he just keep thanking them?

Tony went to pass his—sludge to the different men, who all took one look at the (still bubbling pot) and declared how Peter had managed to fill them with the meat. Tony huffed and stomped off to his spot to eat—the stuff from the pot. “Is that safe?” Peter asked the man closest to him.

The man grimaced. “It didn’t kill us on the way to your village,” he said.

Another one bent his head and quietly said, “Don’t look now; we’re surrounded.”

They were. But—not by enemies. The ones in the trees were the Spiderlings. Peter knew them well. He offered the rest of his food to Yellow, who daintily took it and began to eat as he got up.

A large gray Spiderling dropped from the canopy. They looked like someone had stuck a human’s torso on a spider’s body. The head was an odd oval shape with three pairs of eyes descending from the top towards the mouth, and the creature had no nose. The lidless eyes were a slightly darker matte gray, and the corners turned to indicate emotion.

The others in the squad were struggling to their feet, hands near their weapons (none of them wanting to cause an incident if the Spiderling wasn’t dangerous but wanting to be prepared in case it was) as Peter calmly walked up to the Spiderling. It towered over him and he smiled shyly. “Hi, Dad,” he said.

Silence from the people around him as the Spiderling smiled. _**Hello, Peter,**_ the Spiderling said with a smile. Well, the Spiderling didn’t really speak; he was telepathic. Peter was used to it, but he saw the men around him jolt as Yellow trotted up to them.

{Hello, Spiderling,} Yellow said cheerfully as she bobbed her head.

_ **Hello, Keeper of the Next** _ , Peter’s father replied.  _ **Where do you take my little Spiderling?** _

Peter winced slightly. He didn’t like being called “little Spiderling.” He understood it, of course, by Spiderling standards he was tiny (actually, he wasn’t that much bigger by human standards)

{To Carbow, the capital,} Yellow replied. {He is training to be a knight,} she added slyly.

Peter shot her a look. Yes, he was heading to the capital with them, but the whole apprentice thing had only _just_ been decided—and that was more because no one wanted to try and stomach more of what Tony clearly thought of as food and less because they actually thought he would become a unicorn knight.

The inside corners of his father’s eyes turned down as his mouth turned up in a wider smile. _**I heard**_, the Spiderling said humorfully. _**But my question is—why?**_

“Uncle Ben doesn’t think it’s possible for me to live happily at the village,” Peter replied.

_ **I see** _ . The Spiderling turned to Tony, who had gotten up and walked over to them without Peter noticing.  _ **Do you think it’s possible for him to be happy with you?** _

“I think,” Tony said firmly, “given the way the village was treating him, that he’s got a better shot at being happy with us, but ultimately, it’s Peter’s decision on whether he’ll be happy or not.”

_ **I see.** _ The Spiderling hugged Peter.  _ **Good luck, and I hope you’ll be happy.** _ He jumped into the canopy and soon all the Spiderlings had left.

Tony stood in silence, looking at the canopy, for a good moment, leaving Peter just enough time to become uncomfortable and worried. Were they going to send him back? Was it possible that they hadn’t known? Were their attitudes towards him going to change?

“So,” Tony said, startling him. “You know Spiderlings?”

“I’m half Spiderling,” Peter admitted.

“Cool. Cool.” Tony didn’t look down. “So—if we meet more, can you talk to them?”

Peter blinked. “Well, yes,” he said, confused. Anyone could talk to a Spiderling. The way they spoke transcended language barriers.

“Good. All right, let’s finish—how did that happen?” Peter followed Tony’s gaze and saw that the pot that he’d been eating from had been knocked over spilling most of the noxious stuff inside onto the ground. Pepper, his unicorn, was standing nearby and looking far too innocent to actually be innocent as Tony mourned his fallen meal.

“No worries Tony,” one of the others said. “We saved you some meat.”


End file.
